


God Help Me

by Gamma_Orionis



Category: The Crucible - Miller
Genre: Adultery, F/M, Infidelity, Love Triangles, Pre-Canon, Religion, Romance, Wordcount: 10000-30000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-26
Updated: 2012-08-26
Packaged: 2017-11-12 23:14:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/496740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gamma_Orionis/pseuds/Gamma_Orionis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John was wary when Elizabeth suggested taking on the niece of Reverend Parris to help her in the house, but he finds himself growing fond of the girl. He might even go so far as to say that it seems very much as though she is intentionally nurturing his affections…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tree](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tree/gifts).



> Accompanying Fanmix: [The Other Side of the Sun](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Het_Big_Little_Bang_2012/works/494500) by tree

It was a dull sort of day, rainy and dreary as so much of the year had been, when Elizabeth Proctor decided to broach the subject of hiring someone to help around the house to her husband.  They were sitting quietly in their kitchen, the only sound the low crackling of the fire, and John winced a bit when his wife spoke up.  He cared not for hearing her speak.

“I need someone to help me, John,” Elizabeth told him.  She sounded quite exhausted – and more than that, she sounded like a woman who had lost the will to go on.  “I cannot raise two sons and keep a good Christian house without help.”

“Who do you expect to help you?” John asked, and tiredness crept into his own voice.  He put his hand against his forehead, taking deep breaths to stop any anger that was bubbling in him.  “Is there a girl you have in mind?”

“Reverend Parris has a niece…” Elizabeth began tentatively.  “Now don’t be angry, John, I know what you think of Reverend Parris, but she is not yet employed, and I do feel sorry for the girl.”  She twisted her hands in her lap a little and lowered her voice.  “I heard tell in Salem that her parents were killed by Indians.  It would be charitable of us to take her in, do you not think?”

John made a soft grunting noise, indicating general assent.  Elizabeth bit on her lip and fidgeted, clearly put off by his reaction.

“I do not mean to anger you, John,” she whispered.  “If you do not want a relation of Reverend Parris in our home…”

“No,” he said, a touch more sharply than he had meant.  “If you need help, then it would be wrong of me to deny you.”

Elizabeth let out a wavering breath.  “I do not mean to displease you, John.”

“You do not displease me.”

She rose to her feet and pushed back from the table and moving to the pot that hung over the fire, stirring it listlessly.  John watched her with mixed affection and irritation – affection because  _damn it all_ , she was his wife, and a good woman, and irritation because he could not begin to comprehend why of all people, she would want kin of Reverend Parris in her home.  He had always thought that she shared his sentiments about the man – clearly not so.

But she was still his wife, and he meant to please her.

“I shall go into Salem tomorrow and fetch her,” he said, rather grudgingly.  “If she accepts the post, then all the better, and if she does not…”

“If she does not?”  Elizabeth turned from the pot, looking at him with a careful expression.

He sighed.

“If she does not, promise me that you will hire another girl – any girl but Betty Parris.”

She nodded gravely.  “I promise, John,” she told him, and he believed her, for his wife would never tell a lie, after all.


	2. Chapter 2

It took all of John Proctor’s strength of will to damp down his pride and knock upon the door of Reverend Parris’s house.  He avoided the place at all costs and had since Parris had become minister, and there was a small and fanciful part of his mind – a part that he often managed to ignore, for fancies were ungodly – that imagined the house to be filled with riches; gold candlesticks and fine furniture, all draped in rich fabric, with women lounging about in states of undress, never mind that Parris had a small daughter and, if what Elizabeth had heard was true, also a niece of some tender age.

He clenched his jaw and rapped firmly on the door with one fist.

It swung open almost immediately, and for a moment, John reeled, thinking that perhaps his fantastical imaginings were not quite so inaccurate, for the door was answered not by Reverend Parris, or by his daughter Betty (who, despite her father’s desecration of the church, was still young and innocent), but by a tall girl, no doubt in her late teen years, with her hair loose around her shoulders.  She quickly raised a hand to touch it self-consciously.

“I am sorry, sir,” she told him, stroking it back.  “I was not expecting company, and I did not think to cover my hair…”

By the time she had said all this, John had recovered from his initial surprise at finding a woman who looked as this woman did in the Reverend’s house, and guessed who she might be.

“Reverend Parris’s niece, I presume?”

“That is correct,” she said.  “My name is Abigail Williams.  My uncle is absorbed in prayer and could not answer the door…”

 _Absorbed in counting his money, more likely than not_.

“But if you wish to come inside, then you may speak to him when he is finished.”

“Thank you,” John said, inclining his head slightly.  The girl – woman – Abigail Williams – stepped aside, holding the door open for him, and he stepped inside.

The Reverend’s house was sparsely furnished, which was a relief – it was not so very different from John’s own, save that the Bible was rather more prominently displayed, on a large stand something like an alter.

“Would you care for a drink?” Abigail asked, indicating for him to sit at the table.  “Water, tea, cider?”  She caught John’s slight frown, and quickly added, “The Bible tells us that hospitality is a virtue.”

“No, thank you,” he told her, though he could only think that the serving of cider was something that a wife was to do – not a girl welcoming a man into her house for the first time.

She nodded, then murmured, “Won’t you excuse me?” and stepped out of sight behind the stairs that John could only assume led up to the bedrooms, returning moments later with her hair neatly tucked beneath a kerchief – a sign of modesty that relieved him.

“Now,” she said, seating herself gracefully at the table, far too close to him for proper comfort, “Do tell me, sir… what is your business here?  I think that I do not recognize you from Meeting…”

“You would not,” John said a little shortly, displeased to be reminded of Meeting and hoping that this girl did not intend to chastise him for failing to attend.  “I do not often go to Meeting.  I do not live in Salem, you see, but some distance outside the town, and my wife is sickly.”

“Your wife?”  Perhaps it was John’s imagination, but he thought that he saw Abigail’s lips twitch down, as though in displeasure at the thought.  “I thought not that you had a wife, sir – you seem too young.”

John managed a laugh.  “Not so, Miss.  I am certainly old enough to have a wife.  And you should not speak that way to a man that you scarcely know,” he added, the smile slipping off his face, to be replaced by a deeply serious look that Abigail matched perfectly.

“Oh, I do apologize, sir,” she told him solemnly.  “I did not intend to be too forward – I am not long in this town, you see, and not yet accustomed to the formality that is so common here.”

“You must learn quickly, with Reverend Parris for a guardian.”  John could hear a note of mistrustful bitterness in his own voice, and he fancied that perhaps Abigail could detect it as well, though even Elizabeth had never truly noticed how deeply John disliked their reverend, and this Abigail could be no cleverer than Elizabeth.

“I must,” Abigail said slowly.  “But then, I have so long been told that I am a wild thing, that I have perhaps come to believe it myself, and now I find very little reason to believe differently.”  She paused a moment, turning and gazing at one of the small, shuttered windows that lined the room, then looked back at John, a polite smile curving her lips.  “But then, I am sure that you have not come into the town to hear a silly girl speak so.  If you do not come to Salem even for Meeting, then surely this must be of great importance…”

“Not so important,” he told her slowly.  “It concerns you more than your uncle.”

“Me, sir?”  Abigail’s eyes widened, and John thought that perhaps he saw a flicker of fear within them, though he could not imagine what the girl could be afraid of.  “What of me?”

John breathed deeply, for he loathed that he was speaking to a member of Reverend Parris’s family of personal matters, but he said, “My wife requires someone to help her.  She is sickly, as I have said, and it would be of great benefit to her to have a young and hearty girl to help her…”

“Aye…”  Abigail nodded slowly.  “Many people find that young and hearty girls are of use to them…”

“You will take the position, then?” asked John.  His heart leapt – could it be that he would not have to speak to Parris at all?  He could go home to Elizabeth and not have to pretend to care for a word out of their Reverend’s mouth.

“Yes, sir,” said Abigail, nodding.  “My uncle has been most eager for me to find work – he shall be pleased.”

 _Not that you are working for me, I daresay_ , John thought, but he kept his mouth closed and nodded.  “Good.  I am glad.”

“When shall I start work?” asked Abigail.  She tilted her head and a lock of hair escaped her kerchief, slipping down her forehead and hanging beside her eyes.  She tucked it up again quickly, and John found himself unable to speak until the curl was hidden once more.

“Oh- Monday,” he said, not paying very much attention.  “After the day of rest, you know…”

“Yes, naturally.”

“Shall I come into town to fetch you?” he asked, and something low in his stomach tightened – surely it was quite wrong for him to hope so fervently that she would say yes.  _So much more work for you, John – you ought to be hoping that she will say no and save you the difficulty!_

“That would be very kind of you,” Abigail told him politely.  “I would be most grateful.”

“Ah- good.”  He nodded, trying to look as grave as he should have been feeling.  “I shall come into the town at dawn on Monday and take you to my home, then.”

“What is this?”

John winced very slightly and turned, looking to Reverend Parris, who had just stepped into the room.  He had a Bible clutched in one hand and a very suspicious look on his face.

“Reverend,” said John, through clenched teeth, looking up at him and forcing a very stiff smile.  “I have been speaking to your niece–”

“That much is clear,” Reverend Parris said, looking back and forth between Abigail and John.  A muscle twitched in the side of his mouth, and John glanced at Abigail, who was looking at her uncle with an expression of absolute unconcern.  She did not look as though she feared him in the slightest, and _everyone_ feared _something_ about Reverend Parris. 

“He has offered me work, Uncle,” said Abigail.  “His wife requires a girl to help her, and Mr. Proctor has offered me the position.”

“Ah…”  The look of suspicion in Reverend Parris’s eyes faded slightly, and he nodded.  “Good, then.  That is good.  My thanks, Mr. Proctor – it is so difficult to find work for a young lady who did not grow up in the village…”

“You are most welcome,” John told him, now barely able to speak, for the way in which he was grinding his teeth together.  “Then, I shall be here on Monday to fetch her.”

“Yes, of course.”  Reverend Parris was smiling a very stiff smile, clearly eager for John to leave.

“Thank you for offering me work, sir,” said Abigail, all sweetness, and John turned and all but stalked out, leaving Parris to talk to his niece. 

As he shut the door, he heard him say something that sounded very like _Improper behaviour, Abigail._   John froze momentarily, and heard Abigail say something in a tone that John doubted that Reverend Parris would have tolerated from anyone not family, but strain as John did, he could not make out her words.

“…Nothing, Uncle…” was all he could hear.

He sighed, then shook himself, wondering what was possessing him to be so interested in any member of Parris’s family that he would resort to listening at doors.  _That is most childish of you, John Proctor._

But as he climbed back up onto the cart that he had hitched to the pole outside the Reverend’s house and flicked the reigns, as the horse drew away from the building, John could not help picturing that loose strand of hair that had fallen so sweetly across Abigail Williams’ forehead.


	3. Chapter 3

“Is something the matter, John?” Elizabeth asked, when he returned, a thin sheen of sweat upon his forehead from the sun, and a frown upon his face from the thoughts of Parris’s niece that had plagued him.

“No,” he said automatically.  “Abigail Williams–”

“Abigail Williams?”  Elizabeth cut him off, her mouth twisting into an odd little frown.  “Who is Abigail Williams, John?  I thought that you were going to see Reverend Parris about his niece.”

“His niece is Abigail Williams,” John told her.  “She will work for you.”

He turned away, walking over to the fireplace and gazing into Elizabeth’s cooking pot.  Thin broth boiled in it, a sheen of grease upon the top and a few kernels of corn bobbing in it.  The broth itself was pale and transparent, with only a slightly brown colour visible in the foam.

It looked distinctly unappetizing.

John picked up a spoon from where Elizabeth kept it hanging at the side of the fireplace and stirred slowly, watching the kernels shift around in the liquid.  He glanced back over his shoulder and saw Elizabeth watching him nervously.

With a small sigh, he looked back at the pot and raised the spoon to his lips, taking a small sip.  It was near flavourless.

As was everything that they ate.

“It needs a pinch more salt, I think,” he said, hanging the spoon back up.

 _All the spices eaten by every heathen in India couldn’t give broth a flavour in this house,_ he thought, but smiled as Elizabeth fetched the salt box and threw a pinch in.  It would make little difference, he expected, but he took a bit more and tasted once again and congratulated his wife.

“Perhaps next time you are in the village, you could buy some meat,” Elizabeth suggested tentatively.  “I think our food is much plainer when we haven’t any.”

“I’ll buy some on Monday, when I fetch Abigail,” John told her.  He trailed off when he saw Elizabeth turn away.  “Is something amiss here, Elizabeth?”

“Why can her uncle not bring her?” asked Elizabeth quietly.  “Or she could come by herself – a strong girl can walk from Salem to our house in little over an hour.  I see not why you should fetch her.”

“Does it matter?  I will go before dawn, you will not even know…” 

Elizabeth shot him the coldest look that he had ever received from her, or from anyone.  Even Reverend Parris could not freeze with a look the way that Elizabeth could, and John found himself wondering what he could possibly have said to offend her so desperately.

“It matters very much, John,” she snapped.  “The very fact that I will not know matters.  Do you aim to keep secrets from me, John?”

“No!”  He jolted back, offended.  “I have no secrets from you!  What secrets do you suspect me to be keeping?”

Silence hung in the air, and then Benjamin scrambled in, crying, with a scraped knee, and Elizabeth turned her attentions to him.  John watched, mute, as his wife helped his son into a chair and rolled up his breeches that she might attend to the scrape.

She kept her eyes pointedly averted from John, even as he went around to stand beside Benjamin and tell him that he would heal before he knew it, and John bristled.  He did not care for his wife’s expression, her coldness or the way she looked at him as though she thought that he was a liar.

_She should know me better than that._

But John said nothing.  Not in the presence of their son.

Elizabeth scarcely touched him when they went to bed that night, instead lying as far from him upon their thin and narrow mattress as she could.  When John tried to touch her, to draw her closer to him, she only stiffened and pushed his hands away.

“I am tired, John.”

“You are always tired!”  He did not bother trying to keep scorn from his voice.  “I work all day in the fields and you sit at home and _you_ are too tired?  I would think you would have the energy to please your husband, Elizabeth.”

She did not speak, but she did not soften either.  She turned away and left John to fume and burn with frustration.


	4. Chapter 4

John found himself oddly eager for Monday.  Perhaps it was half because of the usual dull nature of Sundays that made it seem like it was taking far longer than it should have for morning to come, but the period between John’s initial trip to Salem and his trip to go and fetch Abigail seemed endless.

When he rose on Monday morning, long before dawn, Elizabeth was already awake and sitting by the door, waiting for him.

 “Is something wrong, Elizabeth?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said, wringing her hands slightly. “John, if you don’t want to have Parris’s kin in our house, then we needn’t have Abigail.”

“What’s this?”  He snorted, even as he turned away from her and picked up a piece of rye bread from the table.  He shredded it slowly between his fingers, his back to his wife.  “You wanted Abigail Williams – has something changed your mind?”

“I fear saying, John…”

“Fear saying what?”

She swallowed, then said in a rush, “I’m afraid, John.  Something feels wrong, and the more I think of it, the more I think that the Williams girl should not be in our home.  I don’t know why I feel that way,” she added desperately, “and I don’t want you to fear some sort of- of witchcraft…”  She dropped her voice to a whisper to say that word, “but I do fear her.”

“Nonsense, Elizabeth.  You have not so much as met the girl.”

“But I _feel_ it, John.”

“I will not hear this.”  He turned back to her, scowling sternly.  “I have promised Abigail Williams work.  It is the first time Reverend Parris has ever spoken civilly to me.  I shall not snub him or his family for no more reason than _because you feel it_.  That is madness, Elizabeth, and I will not have it!”

She looked down, twisting her hands in her lap.  “Did Abigail Williams seem… seem good, John?  Virtuous and proper, do you think?  Was that the impression that you got of her?”

“She did seem good, yes,” John said shortly.  “Does that satisfy you?  Will you let me go now?”

“Yes, John,” Elizabeth said, as meek and mild as she had ever sounded.

“Good.”  He did not look back at her, but stormed out of the house, hitching up the horses while he stewed over his wife’s behaviour.  Asking whether Abigail Williams seemed virtuous before she had even met her – who was he, John, to judge?  Why could Elizabeth not wait and judge the girl herself?

Was it possible that she suspected–

What?  Was it possible that she suspected that Abigail had, in her haste to speak to her guest, been a touch careless in hiding her hair?  That was no sin – she had been left to answer the door, and had surely not expected visitors, and it was nothing improper that she might have neglected to hide a single curl.  There were girls and women in the village who did not hide their hair at all, except on Sundays, of course.

John climbed up onto the wagon and flicked the reigns, and his horses began to plod the familiar route to Salem, over all the potholes and uneven patches that had become so much endless road in John’s mind.  Dawn had barely begun to lighten the horizon, just colouring it with pale pink and violet.  The road was silent save for the chirruping of crickets and one or two far-away birds.

Birds often stayed far from Salem, he had found.

Perhaps the birds that circled over the town and then flew far away were like John himself.  Perhaps they, like he, could sense the wrongness that had pervaded the village since Reverend Parris took over and even before that.

John had, he would willingly admit to himself if no one else, never been a great churchgoer.  He disliked the stiffness and austerity of meetings, and had been whipped too many times as a child for failing to sit perfectly still upon the hard and uncomfortable wooden benches.  The whole matter had left a sour taste in his mouth.  But he was a good Puritan man, and his wife a good Puritan woman, and so they had attended meeting every Sunday with utmost solemnity, calmly bearing the changing tides that came with each new minister, until Reverend Parris had taken up the post.

John’s dislike for Parris had been immediate and complete.  From the moment that he had laid eyes on him, he loathed him profoundly and wanted nothing to do with him, and it had come as a great relief when Elizabeth had fallen sick and John could use her illness as an excuse to avoid going into town.  It meant that he had to endure glares and the occasional whispered accusation of lack of piety, but he would rather suffer that then Parris’s unending sermons about the futility of life and the fires of Hell.

How Parris had come to have a niece like Abigail Williams, he did not know.  He would have thought that all manner of spirit or gaiety, which Abigail seemed to embody well, if with some manner of proper restraint, would have been crushed out of the home of the Reverend.

_Perhaps Abigail is as dull as her uncle, but capable of hiding it._

John sighed, tugging slightly on his horses’ reins and guiding them over a small wooden bridge on the edge of town.  He could see the houses of Salem, just beginning to stir with the early morning movements – and more often than not, the prayers – of their inhabitants, and a fire already burning in Parris’s house.  Before John had even reached the door, it was flung open, and Abigail stood upon the step, dressed, her hair quite hidden beneath her bonnet and the widest smile that John had ever seen on a woman upon her face.

“Mr. Proctor,” she said, inclining her head when she saw him, and he was aware that she was trying to wipe the smile off of her face.  It took her a few moments, then she looked up at him, fluttering her eyelashes slightly, and she brushed her hand over her lips, replacing her wide smile with solemnity.  “Thank you for coming into the village to fetch me.”

“It was no trouble,” John told her, extending a hand to help her up.  “And it is not safe for a young Puritan girl to be walking alone at such an hour as this…”

“Aye.”  Abigail nodded solemnly as she took John’s hand and lifted herself gracefully onto the wagon bench at his side.  “The Indians stay away from the village, but I would not be surprised to see some along this road…”

“I have never seen an Indian here,” John told her, in what he hoped was a comforting voice.  “I have heard that they are moving further and further away from proper human settlement.  There are people who say that they have no quarrel with us…”

Abigail’s face hardened instantly.  The change was almost disturbing – seconds ago, she had looked as sweetly solemn as any decent young girl, and now she looked so angry that it was almost frightening.

“People who say the Indians have no quarrel with us are wrong,” she snapped.  “They mean us harm.  They would gladly kill any good Christian man or woman who set foot on their heathen land – the only reason that we are safe in Salem is that we have guns…”

“Why say you that, Abigail?” John asked, a little warily.

Abigail fell silent and turned away from him, staring out over the village.  John flicked the horses’ reigns and they began to plod away from the village, but he kept his eye on Abigail.  At last, once they were almost out of sight of the manse, she spoke again.

“My parents were killed by Indians,” she said, and John was taken aback more by the venom in her voice than the words she spoke.  Many people he knew had family members who had been killed by Indians, but when they spoke of them, it was always with semi-reverent sorrow and occasionally slight resentment.  Never before had he heard such obvious _anger_ , and from a girl, no less…

“I am very sorry,” he told her, finding nothing else to say.  Abigail did not look at him.

“You look much like my father,” she whispered at last.  “He had eyes like yours… kindly eyes.  He was a good man, as I know you are, Mr. Proctor.”

Something twisted in the pit of John’s stomach. 

“It is, perhaps, not proper for you to say… for you to say anything of that nature to me,” he chided quietly, and Abigail whirled on the bench again to look at him.

“Of what nature?” she asked swiftly.  “I simply said that you are a good man and that you remind me of my father – surely there can be no more proper thing to say than that.  I tell my uncle often that he is a good man­–”

“There is a familiarity in what you say that I cannot approve of,” John told her, rather sharply.  “It is improper to speak so- so intimately with a man such as myself… a man you barely know…”

“Oh, but sir…”  She shifted towards him slightly on the bench, leaning close and looking up at him with wide and almost innocent eyes.  “I did not intend to be too… intimate with you… I am sorry that you interpreted my words as such.”

The horse’s reigns slipped from John’s hands, going slack as the horses continued to pull on them, but he was rendered quite incapable of catching them or even of fully registering that they were no longer held firmly between his fingers.  The look that Abigail was giving him – that serious, solemn, oh so terribly _sweet_ look – had him transfixed.

Abigail’s eyes flicked to the reigns for a moment, but then back to John, and then her hand moved to catch the leather straps before they slipped to the ground, and as she caught hold of them – never breaking eye contact – her hand brushed lightly against his knee.

“Are you ill, Mr. Proctor?” she asked, and yes, perhaps John did feel a little odd and feverish.  He put his hand on his forehead, then shook his head slightly, sighing.

“Not ill,” he told her.  “Just… perhaps a little tired.  I have not been sleeping well,” he added, hoping very much that this would be excuse enough for Abigail and that she would not require any further explanation. 

“I am most sorry to hear that, Mr. Proctor,” Abigail said solemnly.  “Perhaps you should not be working in the fields if you are in this state – I have heard tell that exhaustion can bring about all manner of illnesses… there are even those who have died early from it.”

“Industriousness is a virtue,” he reminded her.  “To stay away from one’s work for so minor an ailment would be idleness, and you surely know what is said – if the Devil finds a man’s hand idle, he will set it to work.”

“That is a foolish thing to believe,” Abigail told him.  “The Devil cannot set a man to work while the man lies abed – it is an idle _mind_ that the Devil will set to do his work.”

John managed a small laugh.  “Do you fancy yourself a theologian, Abigail?”

“I fancy myself nothing.”  Abigail’s voice went rather cold, and she frowned at John, as though insulted by his question.  “I only think about what I hear in Meeting and decide which portions of it are right and which are wrong.”

“Be grateful you’re a child still young enough for such comments to be taken as naïveté…”  His lips twisted slightly and he flicked the horses’ reins.  “If you were any older, you would be taken for a heretic in a moment.  I hope you know.”

“Women are not taken as heretics,” she said dismissively.  “The accusation of choice is _witch_.  ‘Heretic’ suggests an intelligence that women do not have.”

“True.”  John looked away from her, focussing his eyes upon the horses and trying not to allow himself to look back at her, not allow himself to show how very _odd_ he found the whole conversation.  He thought he heard her snort or let out a small laugh, but couldn’t be sure and didn’t want to look back at her to check her expression.

Abigail did not speak again until John pulled back on the reins and the cart pulled to a stop before his house. 

“Thank you,” she said, taking his hand and stepping down, looking with the small cottage with an expression of something like disappointment.  “Oh… I did expect it to be rather larger.”

“My wife and I do not feel we need more,” John told her, attempting not to betray the hint of annoyance in his voice.  “It is not like the manse your uncle keeps, but it is enough for us.”

“Oh, you mustn’t think that I was _insulting_ it,” Abigail amended swiftly.  “I only thought that if your wife needed help keeping it–”

Anger tightened John’s throat and it was all he could do not to strike Abigail.  “Do _not_ speak against my wife.  She is not _lazy_ , do you understand me?  She does her best to keep the house.  She is ill, that is why she cannot keep it as well as she might wish to.”

Abigail did not respond.  She looked up straight into John’s face with an infuriatingly impertinent look.  “Of course.  Her illness excuses everything, does it not?”

“ _Yes._ ”

“Hmm.”  Abigail let out a small, non-committal noise through her lips, then brushed past John, striding towards the house.  She was met by Elizabeth, who opened the door and immediately stared at Abigail as though she had never seen a girl before.

“You are Abigail Williams?” she asked.

“Yes,” Abigail said, bristling a little at Elizabeth’s tone.  “Am I not how you expected me to be?  I would hope I am _satisfactory._ ”

“Oh, of course,” Elizabeth said, softening her voice, and once again, John had an urge to strike Abigail for her impertinence.  Elizabeth did not deserve to be spoken to so – by a mere girl, a girl not yet even of marriageable age. 

“Do come in,” continued Elizabeth.  “Come… there’s yeast and flour and we need bread by dinnertime.”

“Yes, Goody Proctor,” Abigail said, her voice instantly turning from hard to sugar-sweet.  She bobbed a small curtsey that John might have thought mocking – though he put that idea out of his mind quickly – and then Abigail went inside and Elizabeth turned on John.

“Did she speak that way to you?” Elizabeth demanded in a low voice.  “Or to her uncle?  As if- as if she’s _above_ us?”

“I think she was insulted,” he said tentatively, hoping against hope that he would not anger his wife, but feeling an odd need to defend Abigail – a _very_ odd need, he thought, his stomach twisting very slightly, as he had been the one reluctant to take her on.  If anything, he ought to have been telling Elizabeth _yes, Abigail was horrible to all figures of authority and did not deserve to be in their employ._

“Insulted?  By what?”

“By– you were staring, I think…”

“ _Staring?_ ” 

John winced.

“I was not _staring!_   I simply looked at her, nothing more!  I would think that a woman has the right to look at a girl before allowing her into her home!  I wouldn’t want someone who looked… _unsuitable_ to be in our employ!”

“It was not an insult, Elizabeth, I was merely trying to explain–”

“Don’t.”  Elizabeth held up one hand and covered her eyes with the other.  “I’m sorry.  I’ve been feeling poorly all morning – go on, take the boys out to the fields, you have your work to do.  We’ll be fine here.”

“Of course…”  John leaned forward and kissed Elizabeth lightly on her forehead, and she managed a trembling smile before turning and heading back into the cottage.  John looked after her for a moment, then turned away, grabbed the reins of his horses, and led them to the barn.

The motions he went through – unhitching, washing, fetching a bucket and milking the cow – were pleasantly soothing.  He rested his forehead against the cow’s side, letting his eyes fall shut and working her teats as he had done so many times before, in slow, practiced motions that had become second nature to him.

He ought to tell Elizabeth that he’d _told_ her that hiring on a relative of Reverend Parris had been a poor choice.  He ought to tell her that it was her own fault if Abigail Williams didn’t respect her authority, because _she’d_ been the one to suggest her as a candidate for the position.

And then, of course, Elizabeth would turn that right around and tell him that _he_ was the one who had hired her on officially, that _he_ was the one who had actually decided that she would be a suitable candidate – that he had even said as much to her that very morning – and that if he had thought Abigail to be impertinent or unsuitable, he should have said so and not hired her.

And if she did say that?

John did not care to think of himself as a proud man.  He ought to have been able to accept that he had made an error in his judgement, that he had been wrong about Abigail Williams.  Why should it bother him so deeply to admit that mistake?

 _He would admit to it if things did not get better_ , he promised himself.  If Abigail did not learn to respect Elizabeth – or him – he would gladly admit that he made a mistake and he would be the one to tell her that she couldn’t be in his employ any longer. 

But it would only be fair to give her a chance – to give her a chance to prove that she could be a good worker, that she could help Elizabeth around the house and be useful.

He nodded to himself, as though sealing a secret pact with his own mind, then stood up, milking pail in his hand, and started for the cottage again.  He listened for a moment before opening the door, and when he heard no sounds of fighting, stepped inside.

Elizabeth was seated at the table with her knitting, and Abigail stood over the breadboard, up to her elbows in flour and kneading a lump of dough with such vigour that, at first glance, John thought that she was beating it.  When she turned to look at him, that same lock of hair that had escaped her kerchief when first he had met her was plastered against her forehead once again.

“Thank you, John,” Elizabeth said, standing and taking the pail from him.  “The boys are awake – I sent them outside to wait for you.”

“Thank you.”  John was aware of a certain cold, distant tone in Elizabeth’s voice, but chose to ignore it.  “You two are… are fine here, are you not?”

“Of course we are, John – why wouldn’t we be?”

He didn’t know what answer to give to that, so he turned and left the women without another word.

The sun had already risen, casting the fields over with dull, murky light, any semblance of pure sunlight masked by fog that was not yet dissipating and clouds that hung low in the sky.  John managed a tight smile in the direction of Giles Corey, who was already hacking at the rye stalks with a scythe.

“Is the crop going to be all right?” John asked, trying to put his mind off Elizabeth and Abigail and focus wholly on his work.  “It’s been damp – some people seem to think rye crops can be ruined by damp weather.”

“That’s nonsense,” Giles said, not even looking up.  “There’s a bit of mould, I’ll grant, but not enough to ruin the crop, and you can tell the mouldy stalks just by looking.  We’ll have bread well into the winter, I promise you.”

“Some people seem to think mould on rye is dangerous,” John said rather mildly, picking up his own scythe and twisting it idly in his hand, watching the sun glint off the blade.  “To hear Reverend Parris tell it, it can bring the devil to whoever eats it… so it’s the farmers’ fault if Satan is loose in a town.”

“That’s nonsense though, isn’t it?” Giles snorted.  “A bit of mould in the food never hurt anyone, and Parris won’t know unless we tell him in any case, so if we just keep our mouths shut, there won’t be a problem, now will there?”

“Of course not,” said John, smiling slightly as his two sons rushed out to join them.  “Come on now, boys – get the wagon, we’re going to start cutting the rye today.”

He watched with a fondness swelling in his heart as his two sons rushed to the barn and returned moments later with the small cart for him and Giles to throw the rye stalks into.  They were good boys, and they had enough of Elizabeth’s patient and pious nature to excel at whatever task they were set to without complaint.

He wondered briefly what Abigail’s children would be like if Elizabeth’s children were like this, then he shook himself and tried to put all thoughts of Abigail procreating out of his mind.


	5. Chapter 5

“How have you womenfolk been?” John asked, trying to sound jovial as he strode into the house, but all semblance of good humour slipped away when he saw the scene before him.  Elizabeth was at the table, her head in her hands, and Abigail was standing by the fire, a spoon clenched in one fist like a weapon and a mutinous look upon her face.

“Elizabeth…”  John moved to his wife’s side, but she held up a hand, indicating for him to stay back.  Her body was trembling very slightly, and he knew her well enough to be able to tell that she was holding back tears with great difficulty.

“Abigail, what happened?”  He looked up at the young woman, and Abigail just shook her head slightly.

“I- I think I upset her with something I said, Mr. Proctor,” she said quietly.  To John’s ear, it sounded terribly like she was trying to sound regretful while hiding – rather unsuccessfully – an undercurrent of glee at the situation.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing!” Elizabeth interrupted swiftly, raising her head.  “She said nothing to me, John, truly… nothing.”

“Then what–”

“I simply had a headache,” Elizabeth told him, drawing herself up and forcing a small, polite smile onto her lips.  “I’m not unwell, John, just a little tired.  It has been a long day…”  She hesitated a moment, then said, “I wonder if you would take Abigail home now?”

“Of course, if that is what you wish…”  John reached out to touch his wife’s cheek, but she drew back from his hand, shaking her head.

“Please go,” she whispered, her voice cracking slightly.  “Please.  I’ll put the boys to bed…”

“My uncle will be expecting me home,” Abigail said, “but if it’s a bother to you, Mr. Proctor, I can walk–”

“No!” Elizabeth said loudly.  “Take her home, John.  I- I need a few moments to c- to- to collect myself.”

John would have protested, but he felt that any protest he made would only have upset his wife further, and that was the last thing he wished.  He considered at least putting his hand comfortingly upon her shoulder, at least giving her some sort of little movement that could be token of his concern and affection before he left, but she had turned away from him again and her shoulders were hunched.  He didn’t dare touch her for fear of her snapping at him.

“Come, then, Abigail,” he said with a small sigh, and she followed him out of the house.

“Would you care for help?” she asked politely, watching him hitch the horses to his cart again, and John shook his head curtly, not wishing to talk to her.  He didn’t know what had happened between her and Elizabeth before he had come home, but he felt that whatever it had been must have been Abigail’s fault and he did not care to converse with someone who had upset his wife so much.

“Have I done something to offend, Mr. Proctor?”

“I wouldn’t know.”  He turned, glaring at her.  “Whether you have done something to offend depends on what you said to my wife.”

Abigail blinked a few times, then let out a small, confused laugh.  “Why – I said nothing to her, Mr. Proctor.  Did you think I said something to insult or offend her?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I didn’t!” Abigail said, a touch defensively.  “She had a little fainting spell, ‘twas all.  I was frightened and I tried to help her, but she didn’t seem to want my help, and I suppose that I must have done something wrong to irritate her.  But all I did was sit her down and try to help her, sir, I swear.  If I hurt her while I was moving her, or if she did not want to be touched, I swear that that was not my intention…”

John had not even realized that he had been holding his breath until she said that and he let it out in a sigh.

“Oh…” he said.  “I see.”

That made sense – far more sense than Elizabeth getting herself into such a state over some unkind comment, now that John considered it properly.  Elizabeth was a placid woman, one who did not often become angry and upset, and would have surely reacted to an insult by telling John immediately.  She would not have made things difficult on herself by keeping silent when she would have _known_ that John could be spoken to.  Long-suffering, she was; stupid, she was not.

“I never meant to upset her,” Abigail said quietly, sounding almost pleading.  “I only meant to help her, I swear.”

“Of course you did,” said John, nodding and trying to look and sound comforting without pushing the boundaries of propriety any further than was necessary.  If he had been with a man, he might have laid his hand comfortingly on his shoulder as a gesture of trust and empathy, but he did not want to touch Abigail.

“You aren’t going to send me away, are you?” Abigail said, leaning forward.  “I can keep my job, can’t I?”

“Of course… of course…”

She smiled and said nothing more as John finished hitching up the horses and let her climb up into the cart beside him.  She was, in fact, rather pleasantly quiet for the entire trip back to Salem.

It was only when he had pulled up outside the manse that she spoke again.

“Thank you very much, Mr. Proctor,” she said, bowing her head and looking up at him through her eyelashes.  “Thank you for giving me this position and for driving me… it is most appreciated…”

“My pleasure,” he said, and the words hung awkwardly in the air between them for a long moment, while Abigail looked at him intently.  Then she slipped off the cart again and didn’t look back at him.

John sat for a long time, watching the door, and then it swung open and Parris stepped out, a frown upon his face.

“Was there something you wanted, Proctor?” he snapped.

John resisted the almost overwhelming urge to get down off his cart and give the reverend a good, hard slap, and shook his head.  “No, there’s nothing.”

“Then I’ll thank you to leave.  You’ve seen my niece safely home, and now that you’ve done that, I don’t think there’s anything else that you ought to be doing here.”

John inclined his head, flicking the horse’s reins, but before they’d started to move, Parris said, “Actually, Proctor, stay a minute… now I think on it, there’s something I want to discuss.”

“If it’s about me not attending Meeting enough, then I am not interested in hearing it,” John told him, but Parris shook his head.

“It isn’t that, not at all.”

“What, then?”

Parris stepped out of the house and leaned against the edge of the cart.  John looked down at him, one eyebrow arching.  He was distinctly pleased to be able to look down on Parris, it was something he was rarely given the opportunity to do.

“My niece…”

“What about her?” John asked, leaning over Parris a little more and looking down on him.  “Is there something about her that you’d like me to know?  Do enlighten me.”

“It’s nothing about her,” Parris told him through gritted teeth.  “It’s something about _you_ , as it happens.”

“About me?”  John laughed a bit harshly, leaning back again.  “I haven’t done anything to her…”

“I saw the way you looked at her,” Parris hissed.  “I can tell when a man is thinking of sins… recall, Proctor, that whoever looks at a woman to lust for her has already committed adultery with her in his heart.”

“I would say, then, that it is a very good thing that I do not look upon your niece to lust for her,” John snapped, swiftly losing patience with Parris.  “If you are accusing me of lusting, then I may tell you quite plainly that I have had _no_ such thoughts of her–”

“Have you not?”  Parris raised an eyebrow, looking sceptical.  “I find that difficult to believe, Proctor – but then, I know you are already steeped in sin, you who never comes to church and spends all his days upon the farm with your wife inside–”

“If you have nothing more to say than a barrage of insults against my morality, then I would suggest waiting until a Sunday when I _do_ come to Meeting to deliver them,” John said irritably.  He had little patience for Parris at the best of times, and now was scarcely the best of times.

“If I thought you would ever come to Meeting, you may rest assured that I would save them,” Parris said rather peevishly.  “But as you never come, I thought it best to do what the Lord wants of me and spread–”

“Spread morality where it is called for, yes,” John said impatiently.  “But your teachings in morality are not needed here – nor are _anyone’s_ – because there has been nothing amoral between your niece and I.  Rest assured, Reverend, that I would never think to touch any kin of yours,” he added, his lip twisting a bit.

Parris looked a touch confused, as though unsure whether to be angry or satisfied, then he let out a short _hmph_ , said “Good!” and stormed back into his house.

John sighed, then pulled on his horse’s reins, guiding them away from the town as quickly as he could.

He could hear blood rushing in his ears from how much he _loathed_ Parris.  He was a disgusting excuse for a human being, looking into other peoples’ business when he had no business to.  And he was _wrong._   He was entirely wrong, for John had _not_ been lusting after Abigail.  He had certainly not entertained notions of committing adultery with her.  And even if the idea had entered his mind, he would never do such a thing, not _really_ …

John shook the reins and the horses broke into a canter.  Feeling the cart bump over the rutted road was pleasantly exhilarating, and feeling the wind whip against his face made him feel a little better than talking to Parris had.

Why should he care in the slightest what Parris thought, for that matter?  Parris wasn’t going to stop his niece from working for the Proctors, so if he wanted to brood over the idea that John wanted her, it wasn’t for John to concern himself about. 

Perhaps, he thought, his mouth twitching at the wickedness of the notion, Parris merely thought that John was lusting after Abigail because he himself was…

The idea of Parris – a widower and a man of God – lying in bed with thoughts of his young niece in his mind and then praying for hours on end as if he could purge himself of sin like a Catholic made John laugh.

 _Considering that others might have such thoughts is as sinful as having them yourself_ , said a voice in his head that sounded far too much like Elizabeth at her most reproving, and he shook it off.

Of course it wasn’t as sinful.  The Bible said that thinking of committing adultery was a sin; it said nothing to indicate that thinking of _others_ thinking of sinful behaviour was a poor reflection upon one’s soul.

Elizabeth was waiting at the cottage door when John arrived back home, and her expression was set grimly.  “John.”

“Yes?”  He slid off the cart, moving towards her and trying to take her hands, but she pushed him away sharply.

“Don’t, John.  You took longer than I expected.”

“Parris wanted a word with me.  I would far rather have been home early, I assure you, Elizabeth…”

“What was it that he wanted the word about?” she demanded, more harshly than John would have expected of his wife.  He drew back from her with surprise, eyeing her.

“Why, it was nothing… he was only hounding me about attending Meetings more,” he said, but he averted his eyes, not quite daring to meet Elizabeth’s.  So honest a woman would surely have been able to tell a lie when she was looking one in its face.

“Was he?” asked Elizabeth.  “It was nothing to do with his niece?”

“Why… he did mention her.  He asked if we had been satisfied with her…”

“And do tell me how you answered that question.”

“I- said that I had been out of the house for the whole day, so I would not know…”

“Did I look to you as if I had been satisfied with her?” Elizabeth demanded, cutting across him and giving him a withering look that physically pained him.  “I know that men are hardly skilled at interpreting the feelings of their womenfolk, but _surely_ you were able to tell that something had…”  She trailed off, looking at him expectantly as though waiting eagerly for an answer.

“Something had _what_ , Elizabeth?”  John had little patience left for her – she was being pathetic and infuriating and he did not care for the way she was speaking to him – as though he was stupid.  Did she too suspect what Reverend Parris was suggesting – was _that_ why she was so upset?

“Something- you _saw_ me, John!”

“You fainted,” he told her, aware though he was, even as the words left his mouth, of how very stubborn and foolish he sounded, telling her what had happened to her when he had not been there.  “Abigail says you fainted,” he added, correcting himself.  “That’s _right_ , isn’t it?”

Elizabeth opened her mouth to respond, and there was a long, tense moment.  John was positive that Elizabeth was going to spit poison at him; she certainly looked angry enough to.  Then, at long last, she shut her mouth, the muscles around it twitching.  She was visibly trying to keep it pressed into a tight, emotionless line.

“Of course, John,” she said, sounding sickly sweet.  “That’s just _exactly_ right.”

“Good,” he said, then, allowing his voice to soften and hoping that she would accept his change of tone as a peace offering, “Come to bed now, Elizabeth.”

“Of course…”

He reached for her with the intention of sweeping her into an embrace before he took her upstairs, but she placed her hand against his chest, holding him back.

“I can’t, John.”

“What?”

“I can’t- I don’t want to…”  She trailed off rather helplessly, waving one hand slowly through the air to indicate her body and his, and the softness that John had allowed into his mind and heart for his wife dissipated.

“Why not?”

“I’m tired.”

“You give me that reason every night!” he burst out.  “It is your Christian duty to–”

“Do not tell me what my Christian duty is, John!” she snapped, and John winced, seeing tears gathering in her dark eyes.  “I know of my Christian duty!  But it is not my duty if the Lord knows I cannot fulfil it!”

“But the Lord knows that you can, and will not!”

“Why would I deny you if I could please you, John?” Elizabeth demanded.  “Do you think me cruel?  Don’t you think that I would rather fulfil my duty as a wife?  If I could you may be sure that I would!”

“I don’t think it possible for you to be _unable_ ,” John told her, and she pressed both hands over her eyes, bowing her head.  Her shoulders shook and she let out a short, sharp sob, then lifted her head again, looking at him desperately.

“If you desire it so, John,” she said quietly, “then… very well.  I’ll- I aim to please you, John, nothing else…”

He considered, for a moment, telling her that, no, he was being selfish and didn’t _really_ desire her so much, but he shook the thought off.  He was not in the wrong, so he would not apologize, no matter how he might feel a small well of guilt in the deepest, darkest pocket of his soul.

“Come to bed, then, Elizabeth,” he said softly, reaching out for her, and this time, she relaxed into his arms and allowed him to lead her upstairs.

He was as gentle as he could be as he laid her down upon the bed and ran his hands over her breasts.  His lips brushed against her, his eyelids fluttering shut and a small, soft moan escaping his lips.  It had been dreadfully long since he had been with his wife, and it almost pained him.

“I love you, Elizabeth,” he told her quietly, his hand running down her stomach and then bunching in her skirts, pulling them up about her hips.

“I love you too,” she said, but her voice was unimpassioned and John could not bring himself to think that she was telling the truth.  If Elizabeth were not the most honest woman that he had ever known and that he could ever imagine, he would surely have accused her of lying on the spot.

As it was, he silenced her with a kiss and put the thought that she might be telling him things that were untrue from his mind.  He slipped his hand slowly beneath her skirts, pressing his palm, roughened from work but still gentle enough to give a sweet caress, between her thighs.

Elizabeth made no sound and her body gave no reaction.  It was enough to make John doubt himself, making himself believe that perhaps he was doing something wrong or something to hurt her.

“Elizabeth?”

“I’m fine, John,” she whispered.

“You… you aren’t…”

“I have said that I’m tired,” she murmured.  “Do as you want with me…”

And so he did, removing his clothes and lavishing kisses over her fair skin, labouring over her until he had broken into a sweat, but when he let out a long moan and drew away from her, she didn’t even look at him.  Her eyes were fixed upon the window and glazed over, staring far into the distance instead of paying mind to her bed mate.

“Elizabeth?”

“I told you that I was tired,” said Elizabeth, turning away from him a little more.  “Please… don’t…”

He considered grabbing her close and kissing her with all the passion that he had once been able to give her quite regularly, but did not.  He curled slowly against her, resting one hand over her waist and the other on her breast and shutting his eyes. 

Elizabeth had never been a passionate woman – passion was a sin in her eyes, even where it applied to a man and woman wedded legally and religiously before God.  There had, however, been a time – not so _terribly_ long ago, John thought – when she would at least respond to his touches, kiss him back and tangle her hands in his hair and make it known that she _did_ love him…

_Of course she loves you._

Perhaps it was not that he had ever thought that she didn’t _love_ him – he _knew_ that she did love him, even when she lay with her back to him and a coldness about her.  Her love was as solid as the earth beneath their house, and that he did not always see it did not make it any less present.

“Elizabeth?” he said quietly, and she turned her head a bit, twisting in his arms to look up at him.

“Yes, John?”

“I love you,” he told her tenderly, and her lips twitched up into a tiny smile.

“I love you too, John,” she whispered, then relaxed back onto the pillow and let her husband cradle her until her breath became steady and deep.

He stroked her hair gently, letting his eyes fall shut and curling against her. 

He was so dreadfully lucky to have a wife like Elizabeth. 

He would _never_ have lustful thoughts about another woman.  The very idea should have been repulsive and ridiculous to him from the moment that Reverend Parris suggested it, because John had the most wonderful wife he ever could have imagined.

All thoughts of Abigail Williams were put out of his mind entirely, and he slept easily with Elizabeth in his arms.


	6. Chapter 6

John avoided talking to Abigail when he went into Salem to fetch her the next day.  He kept his eyes straight ahead and let her climb onto the cart by herself instead of offering her his hand.

“Is something wrong, Mr. Proctor?” she asked, moving closer to him on the bench and leaning forward to look at him.  “Have I done something to upset you?”

“Of course not,” he told her curtly.

“O- oh…”  Abigail sat back, twisting her hands in the fabric of her skirt.  “Did your wife say something poor about me?  Didn’t I please her?  Didn’t I please _you_?” she added softly.

John didn’t say anything to that, and Abigail didn’t speak any more after that.  The two of them sat in silence, with what John sensed was increasing resentment on Abigail’s part, and he didn’t even look at her when they pulled to a halt in front of the cottage.  She got out without saying a word to him – not even of thanks – and strode into the house without looking back.

_Good._

He wasn’t to have anything more to do with her.  He didn’t _want_ any more to do with her.  It was all for the best that she had decided that he upset her.  If they didn’t speak, there would be no accusations from Parris of lustful thoughts, and no chance that he might actually _have_ such thoughts and risk his fidelity to Elizabeth.  Abigail did not concern him – she was Elizabeth’s charge, Elizabeth’s concern, and John should have had nothing to do with her in the first place.  And besides that, _he_ had been the one who had been avoiding speaking to Abigail – it was only reasonable for her to respond in kind.

So why did it perturb him so?  Why did it frustrate him that she was not willing to speak to him when he looked away from her?

_Madness._

It was all madness, all foolishness, and he would have no more of it from himself.  He tried to shake all thoughts of Abigail away, but they would not go.

_Oh Lord, help me…_

The prayer was half formed in John’s head even before he could think what he was praying for God to do for him. 

Did he wish for God to make him forget Abigail?  Wish for her to leave his life entirely?  No, not at all.  Abigail was serving Elizabeth perfectly well and to have her leave his life would be an inconvenience to his wife, and that was not something that he wanted.

Did he wish for God to purge him of lustful thoughts?

No, of course he didn’t, because he _had_ no lustful thoughts for Abigail.

_None._

John pressed his lips together hard.  Best not to pray at all – he had done no wrong, and even God could do nothing to right a situation that was not wrong. 

_I have done no wrong._

And so he thought that, time and again, while he worked the fields.  Whenever Abigail slipped into his mind, he told himself that he had done no wrong and repeated it like a chorus in his head, and kept his thoughts upon his work in the field.

“I am _sure_ that this grain is bad,” he told Giles, but Giles laughed and shook his head.

“I’ve seen many years where the rain was far worse than this and there was more mould on the grain and no harm ever came of it,” he said, but thinking about the rye and discreetly picking out the stalks that looked worst kept John’s mind occupied.  Better to think of that than of…

Other matters.

John was struggling with the task of heaving a sheaf of grain onto his cart when he heard someone call out to him.

“Mr. Proctor?”

He turned, and winced very slightly when he saw Abigail standing in the field, knee-deep in the broken rye plants that John and Giles had already worked over, clutching a mug and a piece of bread.

“What is it?” he asked, rather impatient and irritated that his plans to not think of Abigail had been ruined.

She picked her way towards him, holding out the bread and mug.  “Goody Proctor sent me out, sir.  She said to bring you something to eat.”

He was of a mind to tell Abigail to go back to the house and bring the food with her, that he didn’t want anything delivered to him by her hands, but his stomach did churn slightly with hunger.  It would have been prideful for him to send her back when he was hungry, and pride was a sin.

_As much of a sin as lust._

“Thank you,” he said curtly, taking the mug and bread from her.

“Take a few moments for lunch, won’t you, John?” Giles said, wiping his brow.  “You can’t be working in the middle of the field with a mug in your hand.”

He glanced at Abigail, wincing a bit at Giles’ suggestion.  He had been hoping that he could continue to work and use that as an excuse to avoid speaking any more to her.  She was looking at him with an expression that was both expectant and eerily shrewd.

“Of course,” he said.  “I won’t take long…”

“Don’t rush yourself,” Giles said mildly, and John nodded, heading down towards the house and trying to keep his eyes off Abigail.  He could hear her footsteps and her heavy breathing as she hurried after him.

"John, what have I done to upset you?" she demanded, grasping at his arm when they were out of earshot of Giles.  "Tell me what it is that I have done and I shall put it right in a moment, I swear!  But you are angry at me and I cannot know why!"

John bit down on his tongue.  How was he to tell her what she had done when he could not say even to himself? 

_God help me, I lust..._

No, he did not lust after her.  He did not, no matter what her uncle believed - Parris knew nothing of lusts or sins except what they had taught him in the school he was so fond of reminding them all that he had attended.  Parris did not understand what John might feel for his niece, but it was not lust.  Never lust.

"Do I anger you, John?" Abigail asked.  "Do I disturb you?  Unsettle you?  Am I not a good enough woman for you?"

"You are no woman at all to me," he told her curtly.  "You are a servant to my wife and that is all that I think of you as."  He stepped into his barn with his back to her, hoping that that would be enough to send her off.

"You and I both know that to be untrue," Abigail said softly.  She stepped inside and the barn door shut with a soft thud.

John was alone with her now, alone save for the presence of the animals, and they did not comprehend sin, so he could be free before them if that was what he wished–

No!  But he did not wish to be free, he did not wish to be in Abigail's presence at all.

"You say that you do not think of me as a woman," Abigail said quietly, "but you know that you do.  You know as well as I do what you think when you look upon me..."

He turned around with every intention of telling her that he thought nothing at all and that she should not speak so, for temptation was the Devil's work and if she engendered it, then she was doing his work for him. 

She had removed her bonnet.

Abigail's hair flowed down around her shoulders, whispering slightly in the faint breeze that wafted between the slats of the barn walls.  It spilled down loosely and enticingly, and strands of it brushed over her forehead so beautifully.  Had he not been married, had he not been so unwilling to so much as be close to this girl, John would have dearly adored to reach out and brush the locks of hair back into place for her...

"Abigail," he said, "cover your hair."

"No," she breathed, and now her hand was on the fastening at the neck of her dress.  John could see her fingers trembling, see her eyes glittering with excitement.  "What are you thinking, John?"

"I am thinking that such behaviour is wrong," he told her.

"You lie," Abigail breathed.  "You may believe that it is wrong, but that is not what you are thinking now..."

"You speak like a harlot, Abigail."

"Then a harlot I am," she told him, and before John could say anything more, she had rushed forward and her hand was upon his chest, so brazenly stroking him through the thick, coarse fabric of his shirt.  "I would rather be a harlot who received what she desired than a prim and proper girl who never did..."

He slapped her hand away, but she did not move from her place in front of him.  She stared up with eyes wide and innocent that belied what she was doing, for now her hand was upon his waist, slowly stroking along his belt.

"Your wife does not desire you," Abigail whispered, her voice low and thick with emotions that John could not have named.  "Did you know that?  She does not desire you, and that is why she does not please you, despite her Christian duty to do so..."

"I care not to have you intrude this way upon our lives," John told her curtly, and Abigail let out a breathless laugh.

"You think I am intruding on your lives by telling you the truth?"

"No, I think–"  But he could not finish his sentence, for Abigail had stepped even closer and put both hands upon his shoulders, then drawn herself up onto the tips of her toes and laid a kiss upon his mouth.

"Abigail!"   He caught her and pushed her away.  "Abigail, how dare–"

"How dare I?"  Her eyes blazed and her breast heaved.  "How dare I kiss a man I love?"

"You do not love me and such talk is madness!" John snapped at her.  He threw down the bread and mug and started for the door, but had barely managed two steps before Abigail caught him in her arms.

"Don't leave me, John," she breathed.  "Since the first time I laid my eyes upon you, I have known I loved you..."

"This is the Devil speaking–"

"It is not!" she cried indignantly.  "If you understood anything of love–"

"I am married, I know plenty of love!"

“You know plenty of _marriage!_ ”  A tear broke free of Abigail’s eyelashes and slipped down her cheek, and her voice rose into a hysterical cry.  “You know of marriage, but that is not the same as love!  Love comes separately from marriage, no matter what my uncle preaches to you!”

“You are young.  You don’t understand.”

“I understand more than you think.”

“Until you have been married…”

“Until I have been married, _what_?  Am I not a real woman until marriage?  Not a real _human_?  Can I not understand emotions, not even my own, until after I have been pledged to a man for the rest of my life?”

“Until you have been married, you cannot understand _marriage_.  You cannot know what it is until you have experienced it–”

“You’re wrong!” Abigail cried.  “John, please…”

It felt cruel to turn her away.  She stared up at him with such wide and imploring eyes that it was almost physically painful for John to deny her.  She looked so innocent, so desperate, and her desire for him seemed purer than lust ever should…

“It is a sin, Abigail.”

“I am a Reverend’s niece, do you think I do not know what is a sin and what is not?”

“I know, but…”

“Stop, John…” Abigail breathed.  She rose onto her toes again and twined her fingers lightly through John’s hair, leaning against him so that her breasts were pressed against his chest and he could feel her every fluttering breath.  She slipped one hand down his chest as her other pulled harder on his hair and her mouth fluttered against his.

Her lips felt soft, plump and full in a way that Elizabeth’s did not – her whole body, in fact, had a softness to her that he had never felt with Elizabeth, who was all sharp bones.

“Take me, John,” Abigail murmured in his ear.  Her fingers dug into the coarse fabric of his shirt and her body trembled against his. 

“My wife…” he began, but Abigail pressed a finger to his lips.

“Don’t think of your wife,” she murmured.  “She makes you unhappy, and I don’t _want_ you to be unhappy, John, I want you to be happy… with me…”  Her hand trailed down the side of his face, gently pulling on the buttons of his shirt.

“Stop, Abby,” he whispered, but there was no conviction in his voice and Abigail could tell. 

“I love you, John,” she breathed in his ear.  “Since the moment that I laid eyes upon you, I’ve known that I loved you.”

“The- The Bible tells us that adultery is a sin…”

“The Bible also tells us that love is a virtue!”  Abigail’s voice rose slightly in pitch.  “That is something that my uncle never preaches, that love is a virtue, but it is in the Bible, I have seen it printed there!  Every other Christian save for the sort here knows it – the Quakers know it, even the Catholics know it, but we Puritans cannot bring ourselves to believe it, though it is written in our Bibles as clear as in theirs!”

“This is not about theology, Abby!”  If John could have brought himself to shake the girl, he would have, but he could not.  He cursed his own weakness for not being able to give her the slap worthy of a harlot.  “I am married, and even if we were heathens like the Quakers or the Catholics, I would not – could not – commit adultery.  Their Bibles do not condone adultery either!”

“My Bible does,” Abigail whispered, and her hand trailed slowly down John’s chest, sending shivers up his spine.  She looked up at him with her eyelids lowered slightly and a small, almost seductive smirk upon her lips.  “I tore out the pages that speak against it.”

“That is a sin as well, Abigail.”

“And do you care?”  Her hand slipped down slightly further and pressed against the front of his britches, and John’s breath caught.  She must have felt him hardening beneath the fabric, for her smile widened.

“I knew that I would please you, John,” she whispered.  “More than your wife does, I daresay.”

“Elizabeth- does please me…”

“You and I both know that is untrue.”  Abigail was stroking him gently, lightly, and her breath was hot against his neck.  “When was the last time that she pleased you or allowed you to give her pleasure when she lay with you?  Be honest, to yourself if not to me.”

 John could say nothing.  He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out, and he could think of nothing but the feeling of Abigail’s hand on him.

“Don’t think of her, then, John,” she whispered.  “Don’t think of Elizabeth.  Think only of me.  I desire no arguments with you, I only… oh…”

Her voice trailed off and her hand slipped slowly down to his belt.  Her thumb ran over the leather, and John’s breath caught.

_God help me…_

“Lust is a sin.”

“It isn’t,” she breathed, and now she was pulling his belt undone with fingers so skilful that John wondered if she had done this before. 

“Are you a virgin, Abigail?”

“Would it please you if I was?” she asked, her voice a low, slightly strained murmur.  “I will gladly be whatever pleases you, John…”

“Honesty would please me.”

Abigail did not look at him for a moment, then she said, “Yes.  I am a virgin.”

John pressed the matter no further, and he was distracted from the matter when Abigail tugged his breeches down slightly, just far enough for her to wrap her hand around him.  He could not remember the last time that Elizabeth had touched him so – she usually just lay still and allowed him to do what he pleased with her body, rarely willing to interact or take an active role in lovemaking.

“Oh, Abigail…”

She smiled, drawing her hand slowly along his length once, then again and again, before she stepped back and began to unlace her dress.

“Let me,” John breathed.  All thoughts of sin remained only in the back of his mind, and he could not quite manage to feel guilty anymore.  He fumbled with the strings that bound her dress modestly over her breasts and Abigail tipped her head back, arching her back slightly.  The dress opened, and John’s hands were in moments upon her smooth, fair breasts, clutching them in his hand and feeling the weight of them in his hands.  His heart beat wildly against his rib cage.

“John…” she moaned.  “John, take me, take me now…”

He was near paralyzed with guilt, with shame at what he was doing, but Abigail’s skin, so warm against his, so soft and _young_ , made it difficult for him to stop.

_The Devil is skilled._

_The Devil is skilled at drawing out a man’s lust…_

He pressed Abigail against the wall of the barn, kissing her feverishly now.  Her every touch, every movement, awoke passions in him that he loathed himself for but that he could not protect himself from.  If she had given him a knife and told him to kill his wife at that moment, John feared he would not have been able to stop himself from doing so.

He kept one hand upon her breast, twisting it between his fingers, eliciting moan after soft, desperate moan from her, and his other hand slipped beneath her skirts, running up the inside of her thigh. 

She was so _soft…_

“ _John!_ ” Abigail cried impatiently, bucking against his hand.  Her face was flushed and slick with perspiration, and strands of hair were plastered against it and her neck.  It was pleasing to see a woman so desperate for him, instead of Elizabeth’s eternal, absolutely inscrutable expression, which she wore whenever John tried to make love to her. 

He moved back from her.  “Lie down.”

She complied instantly, falling to the ground and hitching her skirts about her hips, spreading her legs wide and invitingly for him.  John felt a thrill run through his body, pooling between his legs.

“ _Now_ , John,” Abigail begged.  “I need you…”

He knelt before her and leaned down, pressing her body into the ground with his weight, and a thrilling shock ran through him.  Her legs wrapped around his waist and she bucked against him again, clinging to him and scratching at his flesh.

He entered her slowly, mindful of her youth and virginity, but he could detect no pain in her movements or expression – only ecstasy as he sank inside her.  A sob was torn from her throat and he stilled himself, concerned, but Abigail shook her head.

“More- more, please…” she begged.

And so John complied.  He rocked against her, pushing deep into her body with every stroke and feeling her tremble and quiver against him.  Guilt sickened him, but every time he wished to pull back and move away, Abigail grasped at him and held him still.

“You can’t leave a girl like this,” she murmured in his ear. 

“Abigail…”

“Don’t stop when you know you don’t want to,” she ordered him.  She knotted her fingers in his hair, holding his head still so that she could kiss him.  Her legs were wrapped tightly around his waist, her body rocking eagerly against his-

“Oh, God,” John breathed, just before he lost all control.

Abigail shook in his arms and a wave of intense pleasure crashed over him.  He had to gasp for air and he pulled back from her slowly, clutching at his clothing and wiping sweat from his brow.  Abigail’s eyes were shining, her breast heaving, and she too was soaked in perspiration – whether his or hers, he could not tell.

“John,” she breathed.  “That was- oh, _John_ , that was _incredible_ …”

“I- I have work…”  He wished that he had some way to check his appearance, for he was sure that even if his guilt was not written on his face, it would be obvious in the state of his clothing.

“John, you know not what that _was_ to me…”

“We can’t do this again, Abigail,” he told her firmly, trying to straighten his shirt and tighten his belt at the same time.

“Let me…” she murmured.  Her voice was low and sensual yet again and when she leaned forward to fasten his belt for him, her hands pressed against him, sending small thrills through his body.

“Stop it, Abigail!”

“But John…”  She looked up at him with eyes all wide and innocent, despite the state she was in with her breasts still spilling from her dress and her hair a positive mess.  “But John, you did _enjoy_ it, did you not?”

_Yes._

He had never enjoyed anything so much as he had enjoyed taking her.  Were it not blasphemous to even think so, John would have thought that she had brought him closer to God than Meeting ever had. 

_No.  This is not how to reach God._

“Adultery is a sin,” he whispered.

“You’ve _said_ that,” Abigail told him.  “But you don’t regret it…”  She paused, her mouth turning down in the corners into a sweet, delicate little pout.  “Do you?”

John stared at her.

She looked so sweet, so young and girlish, so _innocent_ in a way, although he should have thought her to be steeped in sin, even more than himself.  She had seduced him, after all, though it was his fault that he had lusted enough to give in to her.  But something about the way she was looking up at him, so _naturally_ and not in the least ashamed of her state, made it impossible for him to be ashamed for her either.

“I do,” he said firmly.  “I will not do it again, Abigail – this will not happen again, do you understand me?”

“Don’t lie,” she said quietly.

“I am not lying.  Believe me, Abigail, I am not lying.”  He was desperate to leave, he wanted to go back into the field and work with Giles and forget all about this, for it was a terrible, terrible mistake, but he could think of no way to excuse himself gracefully, and he felt as if Abigail was anchoring him in place with her stare.

“You are lying,” she accused.  “Adultery may be a sin, but lying is one too!  How can you think that it is right to lie to me?”

“I am not lying,” he repeated.  He backed away from her, shaking his head.  “And I will not listen to this anymore.  We have done a terrible thing, Abigail…”

“How can it be terrible?”  Abigail caught his arm, stopping him.  “Please, John, look at me – you don’t _really_ think that it was wrong, do you?  Please, John, say that you don’t…”

“But it _was_ wrong.”

She blinked slowly and a tear slipped down her cheek.  Her lip was trembling sweetly and he would have dearly loved to be able to comfort her.

_No.  No, you do not want to comfort her.  It is her own fault, she brought this upon herself by seducing me._

“Stop it, Abigail,” he said sharply.  “Do not behave as a harlot–”

“A _harlot_?” Abigail cried.  She looked shocked that he would call her that and stumbled backwards as if he had hit her.  “I- I am not a _harlot_ , John – did I not say that I was a virgin?”

“You seduced a married man–”

“You desired it!  You could have stopped me!  You lusted for me more than I did for you!”

“I will listen to this no longer.”  John turned away from her, rushing out of the barn before she could say another word to him.  He leaned back against the wall for a second, gulping in a deep, steadying breath, then he straightened up, tried to hitch a small smile onto his face, and headed back out into the field.


	7. Chapter 7

“You took your time for someone who didn’t want to take a rest,” Giles teased when John finally found his way back to him and picked up his scythe to start working on the rye again.

“Abigail and I took to talking,” he said, then gave Giles a sharp look, wondering if he would suspect what had happened.  Giles was a clever man and had been close to John for years, and surely if there was anyone who would guess, he would be the one.

“I hope you discussed something most interesting to sacrifice the grain for it,” Giles said mildly.

John bit his tongue, choosing not to snap back at him – it was safer that way.  The more he spoke, the more likely he was to let something slip about what he had done with Abigail.  It was best to stay silent, at least until the guilt had passed.

_Would the guilt ever pass?_

He doubted it.

What if he went to his grave still thinking of this?  He was no Catholic, he had no ways to purge himself of sin.  He would live with this burden upon his shoulders for the rest of his life and it would be brought before him when he was dead.  It was enough to send him to Hell, was it not?

_No.  Everyone sins sometimes, everyone makes some sort of error.  I was seduced, I was tempted.  I can appeal to the Lord, surely – if he is merciful…_

But God might not be merciful.

John did not know enough of theology to know with any degree of certainty what God might be like, but he doubted that God would take kindly to a man who had been unfaithful to a wife as blameless as Elizabeth.  He expected that God would have a very harsh punishment indeed for such a man.

And he would deserve it wholly.

He felt loathing for himself and his behaviour well deep in his stomach.  It would have been such a glorious relief to be able to tell Giles – to be able to tell _anyone_ – but he could not.  He had to keep himself silent, for even if God might be merciful, the town would not be.

_Adultery.  Lechery.  They would be glad to slap such crimes upon me and have me become a pariah in Salem…_

He shuddered.

“You are quiet, John,” Giles observed.  “Still thinking on what you and young Miss Williams discussed?”

He nodded curtly and gave no further explanation, and Giles, fortunately, did not seem to require one.  John threw himself into his work, hacking at the grain until he had filled a cart with stalks of rye to be brought into town.

“You might bring this all in tonight when you take Abigail home,” Giles said, sighing as he shoved one last load of grain onto the cart and wiping his brow.  “We’ve done well…”

John nodded absently, but thoughts of Abigail were filling his mind again, making him shiver.  He would have to speak to her, have to sit with her for the entire trip into Salem…

“Are you ill, John?”

“No!” he said immediately, and more sharply than he had intended.

“Because you seem ill – have you eaten some bad food, do you think?”  Giles let out a small chuckle.  “Or perhaps Abigail wished to poison you with that food that she brought to you…”

The idea held no humour to John’s mind.  He stared at Giles with a pained expression.

How was he to explain what Abigail had done?  It had been tantamount to poisoning him, save for the fact that she had poisoned his mind and his soul instead of his body.  But it was just as he had heard being killed with poison was – he had been unable to stop the lust coursing through his body when Abigail had taken him, just as one would have been unable to stop poison from killing one if one swallowed it.

_Dear God, what have I done?_

He could excuse it with metaphors about poison, he could convince himself that it was not him who was at fault for what had happened, but it wasn’t true.  It wasn’t _ever_ going to be true because what John had done _was_ wrong – not just wrong by the standards of the village, if they should ever find out, though it was certainly that, and not just wrong because it said in the Bible that it was wrong, but wrong because John could feel it from the very depths of his soul.

If he could have taken it back, he would have done so in a moment.  He would have had no qualms, no doubts, but would have immediately stopped himself from going into the barn with Abigail.  He would have sat out in the fields and eaten his food where Giles could see him…

And if he had done that, what would Abigail have done next?  He doubted deeply that she would have gracefully accepted a rebuke.  She might have done something far worse if he had refused her.  She might have threatened the safety of Elizabeth or of his sons­–

 _Of course she would not have, John.  What fresh madness is this_?

Abigail was no witch, who would stoop to murder to get as she desired.  She was just a girl, just a girl who desired a man who she should not have had, and if John _had_ refused her and refused her _consistently_ , then she would never have been able to do anything about it.  She would have had to accept that she would not be able to lie with John, and surely, for such a young – _and beautiful_ – girl, that would not come as such a dreadful blow.  She would know that she could still have many men in her life…

_Not that he would ever have condoned that sort of behaviour.  He would want for her to have a good Christian life with a good Christian husband. ****_

If John had only pushed her away…

He was so weak.  He had become so weak to let himself…

 _You would not have done it if Elizabeth satisfied you_.

The voice in John’s mind that said that was very small, a tiny whisper in the deepest, darkest corner of his mind, but small as it was, it sent a shudder down his spine that anything in his mind could make such a claim.

_This is not Elizabeth’s fault._

This was _everyone’s_ fault but Elizabeth’s.  It was his own fault for letting his lust overtake him.  It was Abigail’s fault for tempting him.  It was Giles’ fault for not seeing what Abigail was going to do and stopping John from going with her.  It was Parris’s fault for not exercising control over his niece.  But it was _not_ Elizabeth’s fault, _never_ Elizabeth’s fault.

_But she does not fulfil her duty as your wife._

_She has no duty to please me more than she already does!_ John thought viciously.  She was a good wife – a _wonderful_ wife, in fact, despite her occasionally frigid behaviour.  That was to be expected of any woman after some time in a marriage – many men, even, were apt to drift away from their wives and desire them less after some time. 

_And that is when many men’s thoughts stray to infidelity…_

_My thoughts did not stray – if that were all, I would be sure that God would forgive me…_

_Whosoever looks upon a woman and think of committing adultery with her–_

John winced.  He had never been skilled at the memorization of Biblical verses, but he was quite sure that there was something in the Bible to the effect that lustful thoughts were as terrible as lustful actions.  He was sure that he could hear Reverend Parris’s voice in his mind repeating the verse, though he wondered whether that was a memory or simply some paranoid figment of his imagination.

His guilt-ridden imagination…

“You need a proper rest, John,” Giles said, all concern.  “You look quite the mess.  You could do with–”

“With nothing,” John said icily.  “I will be fine.  I’m just a little tired, that is all.  You need the rest more than I do.”

Giles nodded, raising one shoulder in a small and oncerncerned little movement.  “If that is how you care to think, then think that way, by all means.  I hope you’ll be able to make it into the town with the grain…”

“I’m not ill,” John snapped.  He glared as Giles turned away and began the walk back to his cottage, then grabbed the reigns of his horses and started pulling them – and the cart behind them – back towards his own home.

Elizabeth was at the door when he arrived and there was a nervous smile about her lips.  “Oh, John.  You have been out so long…”

“No longer than any other day,” he said, glancing at the sun.  It was no lower in the sky, no further along the horizon than it usually was.

Elizabeth shook her head, touching her forehead.  “No?  It feels as though it has been so terribly long…”

“I can assure you that is has not,” John told her, then tried to soften his words with a kiss.  “I must take the grain into town – and Abigail with me – I will be back soon…”

“Might I have a bit of the grain now?” Elizabeth asked.  “We are so close to being out of flour – there was scarcely enough for the bread today.  I can grind just a bit for tomorrow myself…”

John nodded, allowing Elizabeth to take an armful of the rye from his cart.  “Be careful of mould – I think there is some in this…”

“I’ll be careful,” Elizabeth promised.

John wanted to say something more – an _I love you_ , at least – but Abigail had slipped out of the house and was standing beside Elizabeth and he could say nothing more.  Elizabeth glanced swiftly from him to Abigail, then shook her head, also making no sound.  She turned and headed inside with an armful of grain and not another word.

It was better that way.

“Come along, Abigail,” John said, though he was finding it incredibly hard to speak.  His tongue didn’t seem to want to create words.

_Or perhaps the words it did want to create were ones that he simply should not have been saying…_

“Thank you, John,” Abigail murmured.  Her voice was shockingly soft and deceptively sweet, no pleasure to listen to but enough to make John’s skin crawl with desire.

_No.  Not desire.  Lust.  Desire should not make one feel this way.  Desire is what you feel for your wife – lust is what you feel for this- this-_

She stepped up onto the cart without difficulty, climbed onto the bench without trouble.  It was a little unpleasant to realize how easily she could move without John’s help – as long as she was able to, and as long as she did not need to rely on him for anything, John could not think of her as a child or a delicate lady that he should be offering assistence to.

If John had had more faith in superstition and more interest in such matters, he might have thought Abigail a witch in truth.  He might have thought her a truly dangerous woman who could ruin him, and perhaps that was how he _should_ have thought of her.

But no, that was so foolish.  He had no reason to think that, none at all…

_Save for how she is already ruining you._

“You are coming, aren’t you, John?” Abigail asked with just a blush of laughter in her voice.  “I don’t suppose that you want me to take the cart into Salem by myself?  I could even give your grain to the mill for you – but I presume that you want to spend as much time with me as you can…”

“Stop,” John said quietly.  He did not look at her, did not meet her ( _beautiful_ ) eyes as he climbed up beside her and grabbed the reins.  He did not look at her as he flicked them and they started their journey towards the town and Abigail did nothing to stop him either until they were almost within sight of the houses of Salem.

Just before the crossed the bridge to it, Abigail grabbed John’s arm, pulling back on the reins and stopping the cart.

“Abigail–”

“Don’t say anything,” Abigail ordered.  She wrenched the reins from his hand and grabbed onto him, pulling off the hat that he was wearing to shield his face from the sun and knotting her fingers in his hair.  John could not even bring himself to protest – much though he desperately, _desperately_ wanted to – as she climbed astride him.

“Don’t expect me to believe that you don’t want any of this,” Abigail whispered.  Her voice was thick and husky.  “I know that you do.  I know that you desire me more than anything, more than your wife–”

“It doesn’t matter,” John told her.  His voice was becoming roughened with – no, _not_ lust.  He would feel no more lust.  He would feel _nothing_ for Abigail, nothing except disgust when she behaved like such a harlot.

“It matters more than anything.”  She pressed her mouth against his and John could not have spoken if he wanted to.  Her tongue slipped between his lips, gently caressing the inside of his mouth and he wanted to throw her off but could not find a way to do it.

“Ah…” he murmured, but Abigail didn’t even react to his voice.  She took one of his hands and pressed it against her breast, tightening his fingers around her flesh for him, and when she let go, John was still touching her, could not have brought himself to stop if he had desired it with all his soul…

She pressed him down onto the floor of the cart and he felt so out of control of his body that he could not even roll atop her to take her properly, but lay beneath her while she covered him with kisses that moved slowly down over his chest, heedless of the shirt that still covered it, then to his belt.  She laid one kiss just above the waist of his trousers before she pulled them down just a few inches to free him, then John could think no more.

_She had him.  She had him so easily._

He was vaguely aware of her touches – her hand, so soft and smooth and _young_ moving over the length of his shaft and her mouth, warm and tasting so dreadfully sweet against his.  He was aware of her taking his hand and pressing it between her thighs, moving herself against him, bucking her hips as if she was riding a horse at a gallop and had to move so to keep herself from falling…

“Oh, _Abby_ ,” he moaned at one point and she seemed to take pleasure in the pet name, and when he had finished she did not allow him to stand, but pressed him down and kissed him again and again and again…

 It felt as if he was being forced underwater, held down until he was dizzy and lightheaded, and when he finally came up – or, rather, when the waves of pleasure finally stopped washing over him, leaving him cold and shaking in their wake, John saw how dark the sky was.

Abigail was dozing on his chest, her body heaving and trembling and her head resting against his shoulder, clearly not any more aware than he had been that the sky was pitch dark and the stars and moon glittering high above were their only light.

“Abigail,” John murmured, shaking her, then, when she did not respond, he moved her roughly off of him, stumbling back onto the bench and grabbing at the reins.  “Abby!  It’s dark – your uncle will be waiting for you, and my wife for me–”

“Let them wait,” Abigail murmured.  She looked up at him, eyelids fluttering slightly, though John could scarcely see well enough in the dark to be able to tell.  “Come now, John, you know that you don’t want to go back to her and you don’t want me to have to go back to my uncle either–”

“What either of us want is irrelevant!” he told her sharply.  “They will be suspicious–”

“They won’t.”  Abigail waved her hand vaguely through the air, still not lifting herself off the bottom of the cart, even as John shook the reins and the horses took off at their cantering speed.  “Really, John, they won’t know anything–”

“Your uncle already suspects,” John said sharply. 

 _That_ seemed to wake Abigail.  She lifted herself up, moving close to him and clutching the edges of the cart to keep steady.  “What?  How can he suspect – I have not seen him since we…”

“He suspects me of lusting for you,” he told her.  His voice was more harsh than he had intended for it to be and if he was not mistaken, Abigail’s eyes were sparkling with tears.  He might have felt some guilt had he not been so very angry with her, with himself, with her uncle, with God…

“I will tell him that you do not–”

“You can hardly tell him so now!” John said angrily.  “Please, Abigail, _try_ to understand – you and I have sinned!  I know you do not believe it to be a sin, but believe me, it is.  The Bible tells us so, and if you would only look within yourself to your own ideas of what is right and what is wrong, you would see that it is a sin!”

“But John–”

“ _No more!_   Don’t speak to me anymore!”

Abigail seemed ready to dissolve into tears.  She said nothing more, but clung to him until they reached the boundaries of the town, and then she moved away, hanging her head while she brushed bits of straw from her hair and dress.

“I am sorry that you think you sinned, John,” she murmured.  “It is tragic that you should think that doing something so terribly wonderful is wrong…”

“You know nothing of right and wrong,” John said bitterly.

“I know what makes me feel closest to God.  Everyone knows that – even heretics, even heathens – even witches must know what makes them feel close to God, if only to avoid it!”

“And witches delight in sins of the flesh!”

“ _Sins of the flesh_?  You are no Catholic, how can you call them _sins of the flesh_?”

John had no response for her.  He pressed his lips tightly together and said no more, letting her fume quietly to herself instead of trying to argue sense into her mind.

“I will come for you again tomorrow morning at the same time,” he said when they stopped before the manse and she climbed out.  “Nothing will change.”

“Oh, but John…”  She looked up at him, and fixed him with eyes far too old for her face, far too sharp and shrewd and almost _cruel_ , “everything will change.  Everything already has.”

Then she turned and swept inside without another word.

John wished that he could call her back.  There was so much that he wanted to say but he could not find the words for it, so he simply turned the cart back around and set off back home.  He would have to deliver the grain another night, there was no time left for it now.  Elizabeth would already have worked herself into a state, thinking that the Indians had found him and killed him or that he had suffered some illness that had sent him down on the path or that God had seen fit to smite him…

No, Elizabeth would not think that.

John would. 

John would not have felt it the slightest bit undeserved if God had sent some lightning strike to kill him there.  He would not have begrudged Him in the least if he was stricken with a plague or turned to salt – it might, in fact, be a relief.  John felt that perhaps being salt would be preferable to being a man who was tearing himself apart so with his own guilt…

He did not want to think about Abigail.  He tried to push her from his mind but there was nothing to distract him on the path back to the cottage and when he arrived at last, Elizabeth’s thunderous expression made him wish even more that God had struck him down.


	8. Chapter 8

“Elizabeth…”

“You have been away for _hours!_ ” Elizabeth cried.  John had never seen his wife so distraught.  She grabbed him and shook him roughly, tears in her eyes.  “I thought you had- I thought–”

“Hush, Elizabeth…”  He took her hand and kissed it in the – perhaps vain – hope that he would be able to steady her.  “Elizabeth… I am sorry…”

“What delayed you?” she demanded.  Her voice shook with tears and she buried her face in his shoulder, her whole body heaving.  “Oh, John, _what took you so long?_ ”

“It was the mill,” John lied smoothly.  It was disturbing how easily the words came to his mouth, as if the Devil was at his side, speaking through his mouth.  But this was such a _small_ lie, surely nothing to think to be so terrible…  “I wanted to give them the rye, but the man working there was drunk and he would not take it.  I had to argue with him and I could not even give it to him as it was.”

“Really?”  Elizabeth tilted her head back and looked at him, and John knew quite instantly that he had won.  His wife was so dreadfully easy to manipulate – she had so much innocence.  She didn’t know anything about what it was to sin or to lie and she could not understand when others did so.  To her, everyone in the world was as honest as she.

“Of course, Elizabeth.”  He kissed her forehead.  “Now – are the boys already in bed?”

Elizabeth nodded.  “I put them to bed a while ago…”

“Good,” he said, kissing her once more.  “Thank you, Elizabeth – thank you.  You are a wonderful wife…”

She laughed quietly.  “I can only hope to be everything that you could want in a wife…”

_You hope to be everything that I could want in a wife, yet you are cold, you do not desire me, you do not please me–_

“You please me so, Elizabeth,” he told her, the lie once more coming far too easily.  He should have felt some worry that it was all so _easy_ , this matter of lying to his wife.  But this was a _good_ lie, surely, if such a thing existed – it would make her happy and it could do her no harm.

_And telling her the truth would do her so much harm…_

It would surely drive her mad, surely kill her if she thought that her husband had abandoned her for a young girl, a whore like Abigail Williams.  It was a kindness to lie to her, a kindness to make her think that she was everything that he ever wanted, and John saw no reason to deny his wife that kindness.  After all, the bible did teach one to be charitable, did it not?

“I mean to please you,” she said softly.

_You do not._

“You do.”  He took one of her hands in both of hers, clasping it firmly before he let it go.  “Now go up to bed.  There is no reason more to worry about me.  I need to take the horses into the stable, and then I will come up to join you…”

“Thank you, John,” Elizabeth said softly.  He was aware of how dreadfully tired his wife sounded – completely exhausted, perhaps even more so than she had done before they had taken on Abigail.  And the only _reason_ for having Abigail was to make Elizabeth’s life less of a burden on her.

Perhaps it would just take some period of adjustment, John thought as he watched his wife all but drag herself up the stairs.  Surely, working with any new person after a long period of doing all one’s tasks by oneself could be taxing.  It would, in fact, surely be far more strange if all things settled in perfectly and Elizabeth and Abigail took no time at all to get used to each others’ presence. 

Elizabeth had some ways of running the house that might seem strange to Abigail and they would spend a few days bickering over the best way in which to handle such matters, that was all.  Abigail would think – headstrong girl that she was – that she knew better than Elizabeth how to run a home and Elizabeth would think that Abigail was far _too_ headstrong, but within time, they would reconcile to each other, strike a balance between doing things in Elizabeth’s old ways and finding new ways to do them that might indeed work more effectively…

That was what John told himself while he led the horses into the stable and unhitched the cart.  But as he stood and stared at the place where he and Abigail had-

Where she had seduced him.

He stood and stared at the place where Abigail had seduced him and wondered if Elizabeth, even in all her innocence, might have some beliefs or some fears of what John and Abigail were doing.

He did not like to think that it was possible for her to suspect.  He did not like to think that Elizabeth could be suspicious – she was _such_ an honest, _such_ an open woman…

“No more,” he whispered to himself, echoing what he had said before, said to Abigail. 

He would not sicken himself with guilt over the matter anymore.  It would only harm everyone.  It would do no good – his guilt could not make Abigail repent and it could not undo what he had done.  The only thing that he could do was move on from the sins that he had committed and never repeat them.

_Never repeat them._

_Never repeat them._

_Never repeat them._

It was a promise easier made to himself than fulfilled.


	9. Chapter 9

John gave Abigail the smallest and most solemn of nods when she joined him in the cart the next morning, and she said nothing, for her uncle was waiting in the doorway, eyeing the two of them with what John could only imagine was the most profound suspicion.  He did not allow his eyes to dwell long upon the Reverend, simply tipped his hat slightly to him then pulled the cart around and set off back towards the cottage at the greatest speed that he could manage without making it seem as though he was actively trying to get away from Salem.

“Are you angry with me?” Abigail asked him quietly, when they were far enough from the manse that they would not be heard.

“Yes,” John told her.  He did not offer explanation or justification, just the simplest and most honest answer that he could give.

“Oh,” Abigail said quietly.  She twisted her hands in her lap, looking up at him and down at her fingers and out at the countryside for a long time before she asked, “Can you forgive me?”

That was a more difficult question to answer.  John did not know how best to answer it at all – after all, the Bible did preach to forgive one’s enemies…

_We forgive those who trespass against us._

But the Bible said that the Lord would lead us not into temptation…

“I do not know,” he said at last.

“Oh.”  Abigail looked away once more.  She did not look back at John until they were very nearly back at the cottage, but just as it came into sight on the horizon, she stopped him, grasping his shirt.

“Abigail, I will not–” he began, looking at her sharply, assuming that her intention was to take him again, as she had last night, but she shook her head.

“I want nothing from you, John,” she said in a high, tremulous voice.  “I desire nothing.  Nothing more than what you have already given me – I will not ask for anything else–”

“Good,” he said, but she raised her hand, stopping him, indicating that she had not yet finished.

“I do ask but one thing…”

“Then do not say that you will ask nothing more.”

“It is not of the sort that- I do not- I do not wish to bed you again,” Abigail said in a whisper.

“It seems wrong to call it _bedding_ when we have not done it in a bed,” John said sharply.  “We have done it in the barn, we have done it on the floor of a cart – to do it in a bed would give it a sanctity that it does not deserve.”

“Of course,” Abigail said hurriedly.  “But–”

“I will not bargain, Abigail.  We will _not_ lie together again.”

“I will not ask it of you,” she said.  “But please… just one thing…”

“What?”

“Tell your wife that I am not her slave,” Abigail said, and her voice was far more bitter than John would have expected from any girl, though he should have come to anticipate bitterness from Abigail.

“You are in her employ.  You should listen to her–”

“I do listen to her!” Abigail insisted.  “Of course I do!  But the things she asks of me…”

“What does she ask of you?”

“Every moment, she is giving me some new order – she should know that I cannot knead the bread and stir the soup and churn the butter at the same time, I have but two arms!”

“She surely does not expect all that from you.  She is not an unreasonable woman.”

“Perhaps she is not unreasonable where you are concerned,” Abigail said with a sniff.  “But she is greatly unreasonable to me.”

“I think you exaggerate–”

“I do _not!_ ” Abigail insisted, clearly offended by the very idea.  “I swear, John, yesterday she did ask of me to do all those things at once – why do you not come into the house today and see?  You can watch her giving me orders as if I am capable of doing all the things she wants of me at once!”

“I will,” John said.  He had no doubt that Abigail was not being fully honest – not _lying_ , no, surely not, but not telling him the truth just as it had happened.

“Good,” Abigail said, sniffing and sticking her nose in the air. 

John said nothing more, and was profoundly grateful when they reached the cottage and she climbed off the cart and went inside and he could go to the barn and tend to the animals without her presence. 

Keeping his mind pure of thoughts of her proved quite impossible.  He felt sure that he could smell her in the barn, though of course, the scent of the animals should have overpowered the smell of Abigail’s skin and flesh…

_What madness has taken me?_

He hurried through the tasks that were required of him in the barn, thankful that he had done them all so many times that they were second nature to him, and he left the pail of milk inside the doorway instead of bringing it to the women.  They were sitting in stony silence, Elizabeth facing away from John with a bowl of dough before her, beating at it, and Abigail facing towards him with the butter churn between her legs…

The way she clung to it with her thighs, the way her skirt was hitched up and out of the way, revealing an expanse of the skin of her fair legs…

John did not linger.

“Did you deliver the grain last night?” Giles asked him when he finally got out into the field. 

John shook his head.  “It slipped my mind,” he said absently, picking up his scythe and attacking the stalks of grain once again. 

Giles laughed.  “John, if such an important thing can disappear from your mind so easily, perhaps you ought not to be working in the field.  What if you forget your way home?”

John tried to laugh, but it was difficult and no more than a stumbling _ha_ made it to his mouth.

Giles looked at him.

“John, if I may be quite serious…” he said, lowering his scythe and taking a step towards him.

“Yes?”  John did not look at him, but Giles grabbed the handle of the scythe, stilling John’s hands.

“John,” he said.  “You know that I hold you in the highest regard…”

“Yes.”

“And that I will never think less of you, not for anything…”

“Yes?”

“John,” Giles said, his voice soft and solemn and entirely serious.  “What is putting you in this state?”

“In what state?”

“ _This!_ ”  Giles pulled the tool away from him and used it to indicate _everything_ , waving it around.  John ducked to stay out of the way.  “This is the third day now – you haven’t bene yourself, John.  Are you ill?  Is Elizabeth ill – or one of the boys?”

“No… it is nothing like that…”

“What, then?”  Giles’ voice softened.  “You know that you can tell me whatever it is that is troubling you.  You know that I will not judge you – it is not my place to…”

John sighed.

Perhaps it would be a lightening of the burden upon him to tell someone at least _part_ of what was troubling him.  Giles would do as he had said – he would listen with no judgements – but still, admitting anything would be acknowledging that it had indeed happened and that was something that John was unwilling to do.

“Have you ever harboured thoughts of adultery, Giles?” John asked at last.

That did seem to surprise Giles slightly.  He looked at John with an expression that bordered far too closely upon suspicion for John’s liking.  “No.  I have not.  Martha is a wonderful wife and I could ask for no one better, though she does like to bury herself in her books…”  Giles let out a small laugh.  “But that is no real flaw.”

“I could ask for no one better than Elizabeth, but…”

Giles was looking at John with a strange, shrewd expression.  “You have been entertaining such thoughts, then.”

_Far more than entertaining thoughts._

It would have been far more of a relief to be able to tell Giles all of what happened – and why did John feel such shame when it was all Abigail’s doing? – but for all Giles’ promises not to judge him, and however much John believed that he would not, he did not think that it would be possible for Giles to hear that his friend had been having thoughts of another woman without some judgement.  Worse, he might see it as his duty to tell Elizabeth…

“Yes,” John said.

Giles let out a sigh.

“Oh John,” he said, almost sorrowfully.  “That is tragic…”

“Tragic?”

“That you are not pleased with Elizabeth–”

“I am pleased with her!” John interrupted immediately.  “I said that I could ask for no one better and I mean that!  She is a wonderful woman, a wonderful wife…”

“If she is so wonderful, then what could you desire in any other woman?”

What answer could John give to that?  What was there in Abigail that he did not already have in Elizabeth?  She was not as kindly as Elizabeth – not from his experience as yet, at least – and not as virtuous.  She had not the skills in the house that Elizabeth did, for she was so much younger…

All that she had was beauty and passion.

And those were not virtues at all.

“Elizabeth is…”  John trailed off, wondering hw freely he should let himself discuss these matters.  “She is…”

“She is?”

“Rather… cold,” he said at last.  “Not… passionate.  She… she does everything except… _please_ me.”

“Ah…” Giles nodded.  “That is a defect in a wife.”

“But it should not be such a great one!  She is wonderful besides that–”

“And yet it is her Christian duty to please her husband.”

“She fulfils and excels in every duty but that,” John said.  He knew not why he was being so defensive – he was, after all, the one being unfaithful to Elizabeth – but he felt that it was wrong to give the impression to Giles that she was an insufficient wife.

“And yet, her lack of talent or will in that duty is enough for you to seek it somewhere else.”

“I do not seek it somewhere else,” John said – a lie, but what did lies matter now?  “I only _thought_ of it.”

“There is little difference,” said Giles.  “Whether the woman you desire is made of flesh or only of your own thoughts, the fact will remain that you desire a woman other than your wife.”

John pressed his lips together.  He would have dearly loved to stop this conversation, but that would only make him appear guilty, and he could not afford to seem any guiltier than he already was.

“I suppose that is nothing to blame a man for, truly,” Giles said meditatively.  “After all, do we not all always wish for something more than that which we already have?”

“We should not, when that which we already have is so perfect!”

“But she is clearly not perfect, if you seek something somewhere else.”

“Do not act as though it is her fault!”

“But–”

“I lust,” John hissed through gritted teeth.  “It is not Elizabeth’s fault that I lust, it is my own – it is a sin that I should purge myself of…”

“You do not believe that,” Giles told him.

“Do I not?  Don’t tell me what I believe!”

“If you believed it, you would not have told me any of this.”  Giles did not sound upset, nor angry, simply calm, patient, as a man dealing with a small child throwing a temper fit might. 

John disliked the tone.  He was not a child throwing a fit, he was a man who had sinned, who had allowed lust to take him over, and he had done it so very, _very_ wrongly.  He could not stand to think…

“I need to go back to the cottage,” he said abruptly.

“Not to confess your sins to your wife, I take it?”

“No,” said John, then added, “And you had best not say a word to her–”

“Do you really believe that I would, John?”  Giles seemed mildly amused at the idea, which only made anger boil inside John, though he was able to suppress it.  “Do you really think that I would take it upon myself to divulge your impure thoughts to your wife?  What good would that do any of us?”

There was no answer that John could give, so he did not bother.  He turned and strode away from Giles, his jaw set and his heart pounding against his rib cage.

He did not want to speak to Elizabeth, nor to Abigail.  He did not even want to go back to the cottage, but he needed to get away from the conversation.  He had needed to end it before he let something slip that might incriminate him or Abigail…

And _thinking_ of Abigail…

John could hear shouting before he even opened the door of the cottage.  He hesitated – what a mistake it would be to walk in on Elizabeth and Abigail in the midst of a fight.  They would appeal to him, both of them wishing for him to see their side of the argument and he could not fairly judge a fight between them.

He had every intention of go back to the fields when he caught a few of the words being spoken inside.

They were in Elizabeth’s voice, but it was sharper and shriller than ever John had heard it before and it made his heart stop.

“ _…_ he would ever desire _you,_ you _harlot!_ ”

John dared not move.  They were discussing him, they must be – he was the only _he_ who played a role in both of their lives.  And if Elizabeth was calling Abigail a harlot…

“It’s you that he doesn’t desire!”  Abigail shouted.  If John could have, he would have rushed in and clapped a hand over Abigail’s mouth, for surely in her anger she knew not what she was saying.  “And I can see why he doesn’t!”

“What has he told you of our marriage?” Elizabeth demanded.  John felt sure that if he had been able to see her, she would have been shaking with anger, her eyes wide and her nostrils flaring as she tried to stop herself from leaping upon Abigail.

“Plenty,” snarled Abigail.  “He confides in me!”

“He scarcely knows you!”

“He knows more of me than you think.”

There was a silence, in which John pondered the best course of action – would it be better to go back to the fields and hide until the fight was over, or better to stay here that he might listen to everything and deny everything that Abigail said later?

“He- he has known you?” Elizabeth asked at last, and her voice was much lower now.  John had to strain to hear it and he could not tear himself away.

“He has,” said Abigail, in a voice so thick with smugness that John wanted to scream at her for it.  “He has known me.  More than once.”

“You- you–” 

“Are you going to call me a whore?” Abigail said challengingly.  “Would that make you feel better?  You can call me as you please – I know and your husband knows that I am not a whore.  He is the one who lusted for me – anyone could see it plainly if they looked upon him!”

“I don’t believe you!”

“Believe whatever you wish!”

“I will not have you speak to me like this!”

Abigail began to say something more, but what she was saying turned into a wordless yelp.  Then the door flew open and John scarcely had time to leap back.

Elizabeth shoved Abigail out of the door, sending her sprawling upon the ground.  “Don’t you ever come back into my home!” she screamed, then she turned on John, her eyes blazing.  “You- you–”

“John,” Abigail said, struggling to her feet, for she had fallen to her knees from the force of Elizabeth’s push.  She rushed to him, throwing herself into his arms and clinging to him desperately.  “John, say that I am not a harlot, say that I did not seduce you–”

John pushed her away.

A part of him – and not a small nor quiet part either – loathed to do it.  He wanted to wrap Abigail in his arms and let her cry into his shoulder like a child, but he could not do that with Elizabeth’s eyes on him.

“You did seduce me,” he hissed.

“John!”

“Get away from here!” Elizabeth shouted.

“But you loved me, John, you said–”

“I never said anything of the sort!”

“You did say!” Abigail cried hysterically.  “How can you not remember – you said it to me while you made love to me last night–”

“Is _that_ what you were doing?” shrieked Elizabeth.  “Is _that_ why you were so late?”

“Elizabeth, I–”

Elizabeth listened no more.  She slammed the door shut, leaving John and Abigail alone outside.

Abigail flew into his arms again, and this time, John could not even bring himself to push her away.  He was in a state of shock, unable to understand what had happened, and much as he felt as though he should not be touching Abigail, it was almost comforting to have her crying…

 _John, what are you_ thinking?

“Get off,” he whispered, pushing her away.  “Abigail what- what came over you?”

“The way she spoke to me!” Abigail said, voice thick with hysteria.  “I could not stand it!  I could not!”

“So you told her…”

“What would you have done in my place, John?”

“I would have kept it secret!” he hissed.  “Did I not make it clear to you that I never meant for it to happen?”

“No! You said that you loved me!”  She let out a sob.  “Why do you not love me anymore, John?”

“I never loved you!  I was mad if I ever said I did!”

“But John–”

He pushed her away firmly.  “No.  None of this, Abigail.  We sinned and we shall pay.  Go.  Get away from here and don’t ever come back, Abigail, do you understand?”

“But–”

“ _Go!_ ” John shouted. 

Abigail backed away.  Tears were streaming down her face and she shook her head slowly.

“I love you,” she hissed.  “I love you, I do.”

“ _Get away!_ ”

“And I’ll make you love me again too,” Abigail breathed, so quietly that John barely heard her. 

Then she turned and fled.


	10. Chapter 10

John avoided Salem after that.  It seemed as if every time he went into the town, Abigail was there, waiting for him and watching him and he drove the cart past.  She stood by the mill when he brought the harvest of grain there to be ground into flour and again when he came back a few days later to retrieve it.  She was always at the window of the manse when he passed it, watching him, and John could not pull his eyes from her until he had to turn a corner and leave her behind.

And so he stopped going into town.  It was lucky that he had been forgoing meetings for so long, or it would have been far more difficult to explain his absence from them.  As it was, few people questioned it.

Elizabeth never spoke of the fight again, and John could scarcely blame her.  Were it he in her place, he would not have cared to speak of it. 

She scarcely spoke to him at all, in fact.

And so things went on – not changing in any real way from how they had been before Abigail, but different in a way that John could not fully explain – and John tried to put thoughts of Abigail from his mind.

And for some time, he succeeded.

“I have to go into Salem tomorrow,” he told Elizabeth one night, many long months after it had all happened.  They were sitting at the table, the bread – made with such care by Elizabeth and Mary Warren, who Elizabeth had chosen to help her after Abigail left – that sat before them all but untouched, and Elizabeth looked up at him sharply.

“What for?” she asked.  “You have not gone into the town for weeks…”

“It’s a matter that Giles Corey was telling me about,” John said softly.  “A matter concerning Parris’s family…”

“Abigail?” asked Elizabeth, her nose twitching as though she was smelling something foul.

“No,” John said.  He saw no reason to alert Elizabeth to his suspicions concerning Abigail and her part in his reasons for going into town.  “Only that I’ve heard tell that Betty Parris has fallen ill and no one can yet find the cause.”

)O(

_Fin_


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